Evidence in hand, the group makes their way out of the temple to find a heavy city guard presence just outside. Several glum-faced, white-robed individuals are partially illuminated by the street lamps at the edge of the square the temple sits on. Most bear at least some resemblance to the youth Evlar, likely suckered in much as he was. A few seem to be nursing minor wounds, and while none are bound, the group is watched over by a handful of armed guardsmen who look equally uneasy. A quartet of gray-robed men sits, bound, not far from this group.
The group is quickly noticed and approached by a similarly armed group and an officer with a large, droopy black moustache, short cropped hair, and a somewhat haggard demeanor. Explanations are quickly made and evidence proffered; the man shakes his head. "This makes some things make all too much sense. I may be getting a promotion I didn't really want once we get all this sorted out." One of the guards checks Egarthis' bonds and leads him off to join the others. The black robed man gives Amadea one last glance, the expression on his face unreadable.
He offers his own explanations, saying that an elf and a sorceress showed up at a nearby station and summoned them. By the time they arrived they caught several priests emerging from the inn across from the temple, one of whom quickly folded. Evidently the group Egarthis sent to find the 'invaders' discovered Krant's death and fled through a secret tunnel connected to the inn (which is likely how the group was transported once drugged)
A short time afterward several of the white robed initiates emerged, many of them seeking help and sharing stories of mistreatment, imprisonment, and coercion to remain with the cult. The watchmen were debating how to approach the problem when the group emerged.
"I'm sorry you had to be a part of this," the mustachioed guardsman says. "Tamran's always seeing bad times, and we all saw that there was a lot of coin flowing out of the Razmiran's pockets and into the city. Through legal ways too, I mean. Just... didn't know where it come from," he says, shaking his head again. "We're gonna try and get most of this stuff back where it belongs, but you all certainly deserve a reward as well."
The guards question the group a little more before saying they're free to go. A familiar face calls to them from the doorway of The Ranger's Lament. Reginar, the Pathfinder contact who suggested they look into the temple, waves them over and inside.
He gestures to a table where he has an array of beverages and food set out. "The owner of this place was in on it the whole time, it seems. Everything belongs to the city, now, and I don't think they'll mind if you help yourselves." He takes the leg from some fowl and helps himself, swallows, and adds, "I promised it's not poisoned this time." Looking it over, the fare does look like leftovers of what the group had eaten earlier in the day.
Reginar eats slowly, spending much of his time listening to the story intently. Once it's shared, he pushes his plate away and leans forward. "I confess, you did more and quicker than I ever could have. I - and the Pathfinders - can't thank you enough. Coin's not enough to express that, but it's a start," he says as he throws some heavily-laden bags on the table. "The guard out there's a good man - word's going to be reaching Forest Marshal Gavirk soon. Razmir's foul cult should be outlawed by morning, and if we find anybody else not in custody, we'll fix that."
He leans back again, grabbing a napkin to clear his hands of grease. "If you're looking to chase down Iramine, I'm afraid to say my part in this is through - you've got more intel than I could have, and my personal opinion is she's already dead or way out of my league. My concern is going to be redistributing what they took and, some day, trying to check their expansion into the other nations around Lake Encarthan."
He breathes deeply and finishes. "Honestly, I won't rest easy until I know for sure that the b$!~* who started all this is dealt with. If you find her and get back from the Isle of Terror alive, I'd like to know. Erastil, Torag, and whomever else might be watching be with you if you do decide to go."
"Whoo-hoo! Food!" Garik dives in like he hasn't eaten in like three days even though it's probably been no more than three hours. "Don'tcha be for worryin', we're gonna find 'er. It's what we do." He winks, grinning, as he takes a big ol' bite of some form of meat.
At the end of the meal, Reginar urges the group to take a day to rest, recuperate, and restock for the journey ahead. He also asks them to meet him at dawn at the docks on the day after that.
On the appointed day, the group arrives to find Reginar pacing back and forth before a familiar flat-bottomed river barge. The Pathfinder catches sight of them almost immediately and waves the party over.
"Not long ago, I'd say that it was a shame that young folks like yourselves would be sent to the gods-forsaken hole that is the Isle of Terror. After how you handled yourself with the cultists, well..." he sighs heavily. "It's still likely one of the most dangerous things you will ever do. I took the time to read all of what was left behind by Iramine, and learned what I could about what the Society knows. There isn't much, but it's the best I could do."
He assumes a slightly different posture and tone of voice, a rolling cadence that allows him to speak quickly without sacrificing clarity. "The amulet Iramine has reassembled is evidently a key to Xin-Grafar, the City of Golden Death. This was actually the treasure-city of the Whispering Tyrant, thousands of years ago, when he was but a mortal wizard-king. Like much of his territory, he acquired it through conquest, and he used the knowledgeable arcane scholars there to devise a trap for Aroden. He created a gaping pit to the Negative Energy Plane, which remains open to this day. That is why it is called the Isle of Terror."
He returns to his former style of speech, the history lesson over. "Several Pathfinders have gone to the Isle, but few have returned. What we do know is that the landscape is twisted, the animals mutated and the plants poisonous due to the massive planar breach. There are horrific storms much of the time, extending far enough out into the Lake that few dare even pass near it."
"I don't know what you'll find, but I know that it will be dangerous. Iramine must be brought to justice, and we cannot let her have whatever is in the city."
A familiar dwarf approaches, having come out of the barge's cabin while Reginar spoke. Captain Walren gives a great smile and offers his hand to whomever will take it. "It'll be a pleasure to be takin' you wherever you're needin' to go," he says. "I've you to thank for my own safety, not to mention that of the Black Mist."
Reginar regards him with a grim expression. "You'll be taking them to Fort Landing."
The dwarf is clearly taken aback, but his shock is only momentary. He strokes his beard thoughtfully before saying, "The Isle of Terror, eh? Why not? I hear this lot's doing well for themselves. Ewem and I can get you there, rest assured. We're ready to leave anytime."
Reginar nods. "If you have any more questions, preparations, or concerns, now is the time."
"I'm not for any questioning. Let's get ta moving and catch up with the crazy lady. Maybe we can be done by dinner. I'm startin' ta get a tad hungry." He states as a matter of fact.
Reginar nods. "Time is of the essence, yes. Gods be with you," the man says as he steps back.
Captain Walren ushers the group aboard, the barge seeming larger now that the party has shrunken some. There are cots in the cabin again, and the space is shared with Walren and his taciturn Kellid deckhand, Ewem. The first five days are slow and uneventful travel along the southern shore of the lake, with the captain explaining that his barge isn't a true lake craft; he would prefer to stay close to shore until it's absolutely necessary.
At breakfast of the sixth day, the Captain announces they're turning north, and that the party would be best served by remaining in the cabin. He indicates some buckets set aside should anybody feel unable to keep their meal down. The waters quickly prove tumultuous, the barge riding high on one wave only to crash into the valley of the next. Despite the rough waters and dark skies, there doesn't seem to be an actual storm brewing as yet.
A full day and night of this and the barge comes along the island, which mostly consists of high sea-cliffs. The waters start to calm as the sky grows gradually brighter through the cloud cover, and a half-moon bay comes into sight.
"Aroden's Landing," Walren says, more than a hint of relief in his voice. He brings the barge as close as he can and directs the group to a smaller boat. "Too rocky to risk the barge. We'll have to cross in that." Fortunately, the waters are calm enough that the passage is less arduous than the journey on the barge itself.
As they reach the white-sand beach, Walren explains as the group disembarks. "I can only wait ten days for you, I'm sad to say. You make two fires, a couple hundred feet apart, and that'll be the signal for me to come pick ya up. Want to make sure I won't be sailing in to find some cultists should things go south," he says his tone serious. "All the luck on Golarion to you. You'll need it."
A chill wind picks up from the east as the Captain rows back out to his barge. A few hundred feet from the beach is a small stone fortress, sand-blasted and partially collapsed. Still, it is the most obvious shelter within sight. The remains of a firepit just within the walls can be seen clearly from the group's current vantage.
Let me know how you approach.
"Don'tcha be for worryin'; we'll be for lightin' those fires." He nods affirmatively as they take their leave.
"Well, well, it looks as if we found her camp. At least, what's left of it. Let us investigate, shall we?" Garik draws his weapons out and approaches the shelter cautiously.
Amadea steps forward, her bow held before her, arrow set upon the string. Carefully she observes the fire pit and the area around it, systematically reviewing all that happened here in her mind.
Looking at the tracks upon the ground, Amadea is confused beyond belief and can make no heads or tails of what might have taken place here. However, she is able to take in every detail of where each item within the encampment lies.
The party crosses to the fort, with Garik and Amadea examining the site. The tracks, such as they are, are of absolutely no help to Amadea. It's uncertain whether there were few people in the party, they attempted to cover their tracks, or if the site has been left behind long enough that the isle's fierce, unpredictable weather has wiped away most of the signs.
The fort itself is a maze of ruins; there's a little shelter from the wind thanks to the height of the walls, but there are few sections of roof remaining. As the two look around, they discover some recently-dug earth under one such overhang. By Amadea's guess, they're likely a pair of graves.
Morthos nods towards the graves.
"What do you think - some of the force we are chasing, or another party?"
"I don't imagine many have any cause to come here. The place is not invitingly named. Best to assume that these are some of our quarry's underlings, disposed of after facing some threat."
"Yes, but *what* threat? We have not seen any signs of combat, thus far..."
"Maybe they're not graves. Maybe they're just hidin' somethin' in there. Ya know, like treasure." Garik shrugs. "It's possible they're just wantin' us to think they're graves instead of a treasure hoard. Or maybe they're traps! Oooooh, they could be traps. Traps full of treasure!" Garik loses himself a moment at the possibilities as he daydreams. Shaking himself out of his reverie, "Okay, now I've gone 'n got meself curious. Shouldn't we check? Ya think?" he asks somewhat tentatively.
"Hmmm... I must admit, now you have me interested, as well. Perhaps it would be worth having a quick check..."
"Aye, it may not hurt t' check. Even if it's just bodies, we may find some clues as t' who they were an' how they died," Drosk suggests.
"Sounds good ta me." Garik moves to start digging up the "graves".
"Do not desecrate any bodies. If these are the final resting places of any sentient creature, we should treat them with respect. I will say prayers for them to make sure they have the guidance they need to find Pharasma's Boneyard."
Garik doesn't have a lot of work to do - the graves are shallow enough that it's reasonable to think they aren't too old, at least if the island is home to any remotely natural scavengers.
The bodies are wrapped in traveling cloaks, and were lain to rest in the now-all-too-familiar iron masks of the Razmiri faith. There's no doubt that some of Iramine's underlings met a gruesome fate here, as even a casual examination shows numerous lacerations.
That that fate befell them within easy sight of where they likely started from is a bit unnerving.
Being careful so as not to disturb the deceased, Garik takes notice of the cuts. Looking a bit closer, "It looks like these folks we're taken down by animals of some sort. Wolves it appears. And like... a whole bunch of 'em. Or a whole bunch o' somethin' if not wolves." Rising up from the grave, "No treasure though. Well, now what?" he asks as he look around the place.
Garik doesn't find much remarkable as he ambles around, until he begins to focus on tracks. There's a fairly clear trail leading through the ruined fort and out beyond it to the east. It's also clear that there are quite a few cultists - more than a dozen at the very least. Losing two was no major setback, likely.
The party, with no better clues, make their way to the east, Garik easily following the tracks. The weather remains gloomy but quite nice given the stories - the deeply overcast sky is reminiscent of twilight despite the early hour, and only an occasional gust of wind indicates anything like a storm.
As the hair on the back of his neck stands out, Garik notices a couple of unwanted visitors. Leaning in close toward the others, "Aye. We've got us a couple of guests I'm sure we never invited. And they be lookin' like wolves but there's somethin' that just seems 'off' about 'em." Garik slowly draws his waraxe and his maulaxe, ready for trouble just in case. "I say we keep goin' 'til they make the first move. I'll not be for killin' wolves just 'cause they're wolves. At least, I'm hopin' that's all they are. Not sure what kind o' beasties live in these lands to be honest."
Morthos nods.
"Fair enough, I won't go out of my way to trigger battle, but if they be attacking, I be gettin' a new wolf-skin rug!"
"Aye. Can't blame ya for wantin' a new rug. Just make sure the lot o' ya keep your eyes peeled on 'em." Garik then resumes their trek, keeping one eye forward and one eye on the wolves.
Amadea looks for the wolves, but even not seeing them herself, she trusts the word of her companions. She draws a broadhead arrow from her quiver and sets it to the string, moving her eyes about as she continues to walk, watching for any sign.
"Garik? Anything in the tracks that might indicate how long ago they passed this way?"
Garik ponders that a moment, "Hm. Let me take a look and see if I can tell. Good thinkin'."
Wary of the wolves, the group continues on its way. Having covered significantly more tracks along the way, Garik figures that it's been roughly three days since the cultists passed this way. There's no sign that they've even attempted to cover their path, so apart from high winds and rain nothing has much altered the tracks.
About ten minutes after the Garik first sighted the wolves, the group notes that the pack splits up, one pair speeding up and heading off the path through some scrub brush. The remaining pair start to speed up as well, keeping low and apparently believing they are out of sight. There's little doubt that they're going to attack shortly.
The surrounding area is dominated by light brush and slightly muddy ground; the landscape seems to be trending towards a marshy low-land, though the ground is still reasonably solid at the current location.
Speaking softly Amadea asks, "Does anyone see a place with elevated ground that we might be able to use as a holdfast against the wolves? Charging up hill will slow them allowing me more time to take them with my arrows and giving our fighters the edge when the finally draw close."
"Aye. We best make our defense quickly. It's lookin' like we're soon ta be dinner. I can tell ya right now, I'm not for tastin' good. I don't even like me own smell most of the time," he shrugs. Turning his attention to looking around for possible higher ground, Garik keeps his attention on the wolves, feeling they've little time to prepare.
Morthos snorts.
"Well, I ain't up for being dinner, but they can certainly become a few new rugs, I be thinkin'!"
Scanning the horizon, it's pretty clear that there's not a rapid enough elevation close enough to cause any hindrance in a charge. There is, however, the opposite - an elongated pool of brackish water not too far north off the trail. Though only about twenty feet wide, it seems to be a slough making its way gently downhill for quite some distance. The party is able to slosh through well ahead of the wolves and set up defensive positions, though the beasts quickly realize they've been seen and give up any pretense of stealth. The barrier is long enough that the wolves would have to make a hopelessly long detour to make their way around the water.
The group the ground stands on is slightly muddy, as though there were a recent flood, but it shouldn't be hard to keep traction in a fight. The water, while just over knee deep, has a treacherously muddy bottom. Turning after their scramble through the mud, they find the first pair of wolves just arriving at the opposite side of the muck, and they take a few steps up and down, panting heavily. The other pair is several feet behind.
With a moment to contemplate the creatures closer, they are revealed to be not quite wolves. Their fur is jet black, and the apparent alpha has a curious, bulbous hunch in its back. The others all drool black ichor, and one seems to have an odd, mangled limb slung under its belly. This is the first sign the group has seen, apart from the nervewracking storms, that the Isle of Terror lives up to its name.
INIT: Round 1
21 Wolf Pack
> 20 Morthos
17 Amadea
16 Garik
14 Drosk
6 Bolkin
Wolves:
Bolkin:
Drosk:
Morthos holds his position, grasping his axe tightly, and warily regarding the wolves, waiting to see if they cross the difficult ground.
Amadea does not hesitate. She raises her bow and lets off two rapid shots, one at each of the wolves approaching on the group's right flank.
Garik readies himself to attack as soon as the wolves draw near.
Knowing that trying to bring the fight directly to the wolves across the river was a poor idea without a bow of some sort, Bolkin moved to Amadea, far enough to not obstruct her aim, but close enough to provide assistance should the beasts decide she was the bigger threat.
As the men prepare themselves for the onslaught, Amadea lets fly a pair of arrows, one sinking deep into the flanks of the apparent alpha wolf, the other being narrowly dodged by his companion. Drosk draws his sling and takes a shot that sails hopelessly wide.
The alpha emits a hideous sort of yelp with an almost otherworldly, high-pitched tone, causing hairs to stand on end.
The wolves, seeing their leader injured, come bounding up and snarl, hackles raised but apparently undeterred. They form up around it, preventing Amadea from getting a clear shot.
All of them seem wary for another ranged attack and seem to be ready to mount their own across the brackish water.
INIT: Round 2
21 Wolf Pack (W1: 10 HP damage)
> 20 Morthos
17 Amadea
16 Garik
14 Drosk
6 Bolkin
Wolves fear fire...
With a prayer and a hand in her bow and her heart, Amadea reaches inside herself to her sacred bond with Erastil, investing her bow with the power of Fire.
Morthos continues to wait patiently for the wolves to make a move...
Garik continues to keep his blades at the ready for the "wolves".
As Erastil's warmth pours over Amadea, there is still a tinge of cold left by the strange appearance of these mutant, unnatural wolves.
Drosk launches another rock, striking one of the wolves guarding the wounded alpha a solid blow.
The pack takes this as cause for an assault, moving at top speed through the brackish water to take up positions just on the other side of the muck. The alpha remains slightly behind, dark blood staining the water.
INIT: Round 3
21 Wolf Pack (W1: 10 HP damage W3: 3 HP damage)
> 20 Morthos
17 Amadea
16 Garik
14 Drosk
6 Bolkin
Amadea takes aim at the unnatural predators and looses two shots, in quick succession, one at each of the two lead wolves. As they loose from the bow, each arrow bursts to life, becoming wreathed in an aura of fire.
With a roar, Morthos moves forward , and takes a swing at one of the wolves.
Garik takes a step over and attempts to aide his brethren in taking down the wolf.
Amadea's arrows fly true, one embedding itself in the neck of the one Drosk had already wounded and the second catching the beast next to it in the side, felling it.
The pair of dwarven barbarians, already charging as the first pair falls, redirect their attacks to the other two, Garik wading just a little into the muck to hit the alpha. Their axes make short work of the remaining mutant wolves.
As the dark blood stains the lowland water, the omnipresent dark clouds overhead seem to let loose with a dark, almost oily drizzle.
Pleased that went as well as it did, "Alright! Now that that's settled, let's keep movin'." Keeping his weapons out just in case, Garik returns to the task at hand.
Morthos nods.
"Aye, the sooner we catch-up with these bastards, the sooner we can leave this place!"
The journey eastwards continues uninhibited by anything living - in fact, without seeing any moving thing. The disgusting drizzle continues, and by the evening the group has witnessed at least three nearby 'lightning' strikes, though the bolts were dark and lacked any sort of flash. An unfortunate tree was blown to splinters by the first, though.
Though it's overcast, the light finally wanes enough that it becomes apparent that it's time to camp, and the weather worsens as if to insist upon it. The group sets watches and sleeps through a miserable, wet night on a slight hillock in what has advanced from lowland to full swamp.
In the morning, the group is wakens to a man trudging towards them through the muck, with his arms raised high and bearing no obvious weapons. About six feet tall, with a tangle of long, dirty red hair and a long red beard, he wears tattered, hole-ridden clothes soaked through with mud and stained black in many places. Even before he gets close, his stench precedes him—it’s not only as though he hasn’t bathed in years, but that he seems to have actually gone out of his way to cover himself in the most horrible smells the Isle of Terror has to offer: a blend of rotten eggs, human waste, and decaying organic matter. An arrow is lodged in the back of his right leg, but seems to cause him no pain as he sloshes through the waters of the swamp. Suddenly he stops.
His eyes go wide and he loudly exclaims, at the top of his lungs, “I found you!”
Morthos raises an eyebrow.
"Aye, and who exactly might you be?"
Is he insane, delirious, or both?